by Guy N Smith
Eddie stared around him in the gloom, frightened that he might see those skeletal remains still dangling from a bough. It was scary in here, maybe he should go back to the Mylton brook after all. Then he thought about that fish again; well, he'd just give it half-an-hour now that he'd come so far.
A few minutes later he found the pool, came upon it so unexpectedly that he recoiled; black water that did not reflect the sunlight, sheer quarry walls on three sides, a rocky path that followed one side, rising to a ledge above the water. Now that would be the place to fish from, right above the deepest part where the big fish was most likely to be lurking.
Again he almost abandoned the idea. The path rose steeply, so narrow too, and after a few yards he began to feel giddy. Suppose he slipped, fell down into that … ugh! He dropped onto all-fours, crawled, and the dizziness passed; he could return by the same method.
Eddie went right to the end of the path and sitting cross-legged slung his line, heard it plop into the water. He peered over the edge; it was a long way down there. He looked at his watch again: two forty-five. He'd start back at three-fifteen, maybe sooner if there was nothing doing. It was a dank miserable place here; spoiled all the usual enjoyment of fishing in pleasant surroundings. God, he'd get his arse tanned if ever his Dad found out he'd been here, unless of course he returned home proudly carrying the big pike.
Time seemed to stand still. Boring, because there wasn't anything going on around to attract one's attention like there was on an open stream. Everywhere seemed so gloomy and lifeless and he couldn't stop thinking about Bemorra. The stories had to be true because in a place like this, they couldn't be anything else. He'd drowned those children in this very pool … maybe that was why the pike was so big because it had fed on their bodies!
Little Eddie's hands trembled. He looked at his watch again: five minutes past three. There wasn't much point in staying any longer and he wasn't really bothered about the pike. Far better to go and try his luck in the brook.
Just as he was about to wind in his line he heard a noise, the kind a fish makes when it leaps, a dull splash. He tensed, half-expected to feel a tug on the rod but there was nothing. Gingerly he leaned forward, peered down.
Eddie caught his breath. The dark water below him showed evidence of having been disturbed, ripples that were spreading out in ever-increasing circles until eventually they would touch the sides. And in their centre a small patch of water seemed clearer than the rest, enough for him to be able to make out a shape beneath the surface. Eddie's eyes widened, he stared in disbelief. At first he could not discern any details but it had to be the devil fish of Gabor, so close to his line that surely it would take the bait any second.
Seconds later he knew that it wasn't going to bite … because it wasn't a fish! Sort of shapeless, light-coloured so that it shone almost luminously in the black water, beginning to take on a formation as the ripples cleared and the surface became still again.
Now Eddie Reece could see what it was; a reflection, it couldn't be anything else, but if that was what it was then it should have been his own features he gazed down upon because there wasn't anybody else around. And, anyway, - reflections didn't splash and make ripples! He shivered, wanted to leave but somehow the face beneath the water held him, compelled him to kneel there looking down at it.
It was a girl's image but even the features looked old-fashioned, gaunt and drawn so that she could have been anything from seven to twelve years old. Sad; more than that, frightened, eyes that mirrored a fear that he felt himself, trying to smile but not quite making it. Not only was Eddie very frightened, he also felt a sense of pity for this girl whoever she was. But she couldn't be real because if she was she'd drown down there; she'd be … dead!
The lips were moving as though she was speaking, becoming angry because he did not reply. But how could he when he couldn't even hear what she was saying? She wasn't smiling anymore, those eyes narrowed, blazing up at him so that he could almost feel their force. It frightened him, his fingers loosened their grip on the fishing rod and next second he felt it slipping from his grasp, did not even make a despairing grab at it because he could not move.
Sheer terror at the realisation of his predicament, crouched there like an old man paralysed with rheumatism, seeing his rod and line hit the water then disappear with a splash that brought back the ripples and distorted everything.
It seemed to take an eternity for the water to become still once more but when it did so there was only inky blackness below Eddie Reece, no sign of that face at all. Whatever it was it had gone, delivered a message which he had been unable to interpret and returned whence it had come. If it had existed at all.
But Eddie continued to kneel there, just looking down into Gabor Pool because he could not do anything else, a constricting terror inside him giving him the urge to relieve himself but it seemed as though even that most natural function was denied him.
His ears picked up another sound. His first thought was that it was the thing in the pool returning but the surface remained still and lifeless, a dead quarry hole where there was no life at all, but something was moving close by! He sensed it rather than heard it, a movement behind him on the ledge but he could not look behind him. A coldness, his flesh quivering, his fair hair seeming to stand upright with the sheer terror of the unknown, trying to scream but his vocal chords refused to function.
Then he felt something touching his back. Pressing. Pushing! Mentally he tried to hold back from the edge, physically it was impossible. He toppled over, his limbs as stiff and straight as the rod which had plummeted into the depths only seconds earlier.
Falling, slow motion that had him hanging in the air as though a parachute was attached to his body, alternately seeing the blackness of the water and the blue of a cloudless sky. Blue-black, blue-black, going faster now so that everything was a blur, not even able to brace himself in readiness for the impact when he hit the water. Just one momentary view of the ledge above, greyness blending with the blue; a figure, a face, but gone so quickly that he could not make out any detail except that he knew it was not the one he had seen lurking below the water. Much older, hairy like an animal, although he knew it was human, mouth wide in mute laughter.
Then he hit the water, an instant in which life returned to his limbs with horrifying realism. Instinctively he opened his mouth to scream but the rushing, black, stagnant liquid choked the sound, began to fill his lungs. He panicked, threshed wildly, but all the time he was going down. And down. A mind-blasting descent into the dark watery depths, a roaring sound in his ears as though somebody somewhere was screaming, but eventually that died away also and he was left with nothing except his own terror. Nightmarish visions flashed before his eyes: the face of a young girl trying to say something which he could not hear; a wild countenance staring down at him, eyes that bored through the inky waters with an insane malevolence that pushed him beyond the brink of oblivion.
Ron Halestrom pulled the Citroën onto the narrow grass verge beside the rough track which led down through the hawthorn bushes. He got out, slammed the door, and as he began the steep descent, trying to dodge the thorny branches, it occurred to him that even Nature had tried to erect a barricade for the protection of Beguildy.
This was Ron's second visit today to the disgusting hovel down in the dingle, that crumbling edifice that at one time had undoubtedly been a cattle shelter. Somebody had made crude efforts at converting it for human habitation, a door and some windows, the latter smashed so that one could stare into the dark interior, recoiling at the pungent stench of filth, as though animals still lived there.
On the first occasion, earlier that morning, there had been no sign of life, only an atmosphere of dereliction as though Beguildy had abandoned his tumbledown den. Ron had waited but when there was no sign of the hermit after an hour he had gone on into town, a distance of approximately ten miles. There he had idled away the next three hour's, determined to try again. He could, of course, have r
eturned to Gabor House in the meantime but somehow it seemed like conceding defeat. He had sworn to warn Beguildy, to frighten him, and Ron Halestrom did not want to face his distraught wife until that object had been achieved. Basically it was a matter of pride.
Christ, he hoped the old bastard was home this time. If not he'd bloody well sit down here until he returned. Yet Halestrom sensed the emptiness as he approached the hovel, an atmosphere of loneliness that came to meet him. He knew that Beguildy had not returned and that he would wait until he did. He checked his watch: three o'clock.
He pushed open the door, had to force it, stepped back as a rush of foul stale air came at him. Even with the windows broken there was hardly any ventilation inside, probably due to the surrounding banks, higher than the roof itself, which formed the hollow in which the small stone dwelling stood. So damp, even after two weeks of dry weather, the walls streaming with condensation.
Halestrom's nostrils wrinkled as he entered; the permeating smell was like that of some animal's den. The rough stone floor had probably never been swept, clumps of dried mud that had been trodden in to form a maze of bare footprints. A crumbling fireplace piled high with dead wood ash, a blackened pot on the hob containing cold congealed stew from which came yet another nauseating aroma. The only furniture was an old table whose balance was maintained by a stone under one of the legs, and a chair bereft of its former upholstery.
The stairs were rickety, having come away from the wall in one place. Ron hesitated; suddenly he was the trespasser yet his curiosity overcame his conscience. One quick look upstairs and then he would go back outside. Beguildy might be away for several hours, or he might never return; that was the feeling Ron had as he mounted the creaking steps.
Christ, a pigsty would have been luxury compared with this! The bed was a stained mattress on the floor, the sheets hessian sacks that had been torn open. A piece of rag had been nailed over the window to form a curtain, the room so dark that it might have been night.
Halestrom had already begun the descent of the stairs when something caught his eye, a flash of colour that stood out in the gloom, a strip of material lying on the dusty floorboards.
He bent down, picked it up, held it aloft to see what it was. A red and white sash, the kind small girls wore with school uniforms. Realisation was beginning to fuse with disbelief, escalating into blind fury as he saw the small tag stitched onto the inside, two letters inked with an indelible pen: A.H.
Ron Halestrom's lips tightened, his fists clenched until the knuckles whitened. For there was no possible doubt that the sash belonged to Amanda!
Slowly he made his way back outside, breathed in the fresh air and tried to calm himself. What the fuck was going on? A dirty old man with an obsession for young children was revolting enough but when it was your own child …! Jesus, he'd kill the bastard!
Impatience and frustration began to build up, had him pacing to and fro in the hollow. Suddenly this meeting with Beguildy was more than just a warning to a trespasser, an encounter to pacify Marie. He'd never felt this way before, so paternal, so protective towards a child that he had not begat. Now he hated as he'd never hated before, understood why men killed, that murderers were not a race apart.
Time passed unnoticed, dusk infiltrating this shadowy place long before its time. Ron's rage had simmered but he was not returning home until …
Suddenly Beguildy was there, soundless as a wraith slipping through the trees, a misshapen figure gifted with its own form of agility, scaly bare feet with long black toenails scuffing the dust. Halestrom tensed, suddenly realised that although the other was only two or three yards away he was totally unaware that he was observed.
Beguildy's expression was indeterminable, a mixture of glee and transfixation, lips parted in a smile of secret joy, eyes glazed as though with cataracts.
‘I want a bloody word with you!’ Ron overcame his surprise, snarled his fury like a mountain lion that has lain in wait for its prey for hours and then suddenly sees a deer within striking distance.
Beguildy neither halted nor turned, his ungainly walk unchecked as he headed towards the door of his abode.
‘Just a minute!’ Ron's hand shot out, grabbed a bony shoulder, jerked the vagrant back, swung him round so that they faced each other. ‘Where did you get this?’
The crumpled sash, swinging like a pendulum from the fingers of Ron Halestrom's free hand, seemed to dilate the pupils of those filmed eyes.
‘Come on, answer me!’ Ron yelled, shook Beguildy hard and transferred his grip to a lapel of the ragged jacket. ‘This belongs to my daughter and I want to know what you're doing with it!’
A change came over Beguildy. The limp muscles beneath the outsize clothing stiffened, the lips came together, curled into a snarl, emitting fetid breath that had Halestrom turning away. Then the eyes cleared, blazed defiance … and malevolence!
A low grunt of anger, and Beguildy was struggling, trying to snatch the piece of material from Halestrom's hand, an inarticulate noise from those strange vocal chords that might have been interpreted as ‘mine’. But Ron had underestimated Beguildy's strength, had expected fear rather than animal defiance. The head shot forward, grey hair spilling out from beneath the battered hat like the mane of an ageing lion; teeth that were broken and decayed closed over the author's forearm in a powerful bite, clamped firmly on the flesh.
Ron Halestrom cried out in pain, loosened his hold in that one unbelievable split-second of agony and that was enough for one who had lived in the wilds since boyhood. So swift, it was over almost before it had begun, the teeth releasing their hold, long bony fingers snatching the strip of coloured cloth, and legs that were strong and supple beneath the ragged trousers springboarding Beguildy into flight.
He went as he had come, a flitting ghost through the gathering darkness with not so much as a triumphant roar to mark the direction he had taken.
Ron Halestrom gingerly rubbed his arm, saw the white marks on his dark skin where those teeth had held but not punctured. Then he began to retrace his steps back up to the lane where the car was parked. There was nothing to stay here for, Beguildy would not be coming back tonight; the scourge of Gabor Wood would doubtless sleep out somewhere as he had done on countless occasions before.
Ron cursed himself for the way he had let the other escape, retrieve Amanda's sash as easily as taking it from a child. But Beguildy would not leave Gabor for this was his domain, his hunting ground.
And now the wild beast was at bay!
CHAPTER SIX - BEGUILDY'S TERROR
Ron Halestrom was both surprised and annoyed to see a police panda car parked on the forecourt of Gabor House when he returned. He drove up alongside it, did not get out immediately he had switched off the engine. So many things on his mind, he had to collate his thoughts before he faced the law.
He had nothing to hide; well, only a few minor things. His trespass in Beguildy's hovel for one. Even if the other frequently mooched on land where he had no business to be, two wrongs didn't make a right. Still, nobody was likely to know about that. And the least said about Amanda's missing sash, the better. It would only serve to alarm Marie and if Ron told the police they might ask what he had been doing in Beguildy's cottage. And one thing was certain, Beguildy was going to pay for what he'd done and the fewer people who knew about it, the better.
Marie opened the front door before Ron had reached the steps, her features white and strained, clutching at the doorpost as though she had to support herself. Oh God, something had happened while he'd been away!
‘Ron.’ She couldn't wait to get the words out, visibly trembling. ‘The police are here … a boy's been drowned in the pool!’
Jesus Christ! Ron Halestrom felt himself go cold, the pit of his stomach begin to cave in. One brief consolation, it wasn't a girl. Not Amanda. ‘Who? Whose boy?’ Staccato speech that seemed to come from somewhere far away. Then he saw Sergeant Williams in the hall, began to mount the steps with legs that threatened to buck
le under him.
‘It's the Reece boy, I'm afraid, sir.’ Williams' expression was impassive. ‘Apparently he went fishing there this afternoon although his parents had forbidden him to go anywhere near Gabor Pool. His father was under the impression that he'd gone to fish the brook below the keeper's cottage but when he didn't show up for tea John Reece went to look for him. He was in your pool, sir!’ Emphasis on the ownership of the flooded quarry as though the policeman was personally blaming Halestrom. ‘You've been away most of the day, sir.’
Ron took a deep breath. Subtle police interrogation. We'd like to know your movements over the last twelve hours. He said. ‘I've been into town.’
‘Your wife informs me that you've been to find Beguildy.’ Eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘And that was what you said you were going to do earlier … sir.’
‘Yes … I did. I called this morning but he wasn't there so I went into town and did some shopping and tried again on the way back. He showed up eventually.’
‘And what was his reaction to your protest.’
‘I don't think he understood me.’
‘Quite probable.’
‘This accident in the pool, Sergeant. How did it happen?’ Subtlety on Ron Halestrom's part this time - do you suspect foul play?
‘Quite obvious, sir. He'd gone onto the ledge in order to fish the deepest part and must've slipped. The pool's very dangerous, sir.’
‘I know.’ Halestrom nodded. ‘I'll see what can be done about having it filled in. It's like shutting the stable door after the horses have bolted but at least it will ensure that it doesn't happen again. Has … has there ever been an accident there before?’
‘Not in recent years, sir.’ Not since Bemorra's time. ‘But I'll have to be going. For months nothing happens in Gabor and suddenly there's mayhem and death.’
